


30-Day Cheesy Tropes Challenge (Julian Bashir/Elim Garak)

by Vyc



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: 30-Day Cheesy Trope Challenge, AU, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Office, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Angel/Demon AU, Angels, Anonymous Love Letters, Arranged Marriage, Bartender AU, Class Differences, Classism, Claustrophobia, Demons, Desert Island, Established Relationship, Fluff, Found Families, Friendship, Gen, Handcuffed Together, Humour, Ice Planet, Idol/Fan AU, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Met In a Dream, Mildly Awkward Drinks at Quark's, Nobility, Noble/Peasant AU, Office Romance, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Slash, Privilege, Seven Minutes In Heaven, Sex Pollen, Sexism, Snow, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Space Virus, Spin the Bottle, Stranded, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Telepathic Bond, Telepathy, Vampires, coffee shop AU, past consent issues, silliness, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 17,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vyc/pseuds/Vyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirty super-cheesy tropes, both subverted and played straight, with Julian Bashir and Elim Garak. Based on the tumblr challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coffee Shop AU

**Author's Note:**

> This is a writing exercise I undertook to nail down the voices of Bashir and Garak for my other fanfic, and to stretch my creativity. My goal for the majority of these was to think of which role came immediately to mind for both characters--and then write the opposite. So far, it's been a lot of fun!

Julian still couldn't believe his luck. He'd been down to his last $20 in the bank as the med school admins dithered and dithered about some minuscule error on one of his scholarship forms and he'd been growing increasingly desperate when not one employer had seemed to think him hireable. Then, out of the blue, he'd landed full time work as a barista at Garak's, _the_ trendiest place to go for coffee in the entire city.

The job wasn't bad, either; actually, he was considering keeping it after the whole scholarship mess was sorted out. It could have been dull and frustrating (it astonished him over and over how rude people could be without the least provocation), but Garak always managed to make him laugh with his cheerfully awful remarks. He really was an extraordinary man to work for.

Of course, Julian had no idea—and never would—that luck had nothing to do with his new position. The moment he had walked into the interview with his resume in hand, Garak had mentally hired him on the spot.


	2. Idol/Fan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dr. Julian Bashir unwittingly catches the attention of a famous fashion designer and is a lousy date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scenario is loosely based on the 24th-century in general--very loosely. Don't worry about the details too much, because I didn't.

Julian didn't like to perform hasty diagnoses, but he was almost certain he had pulled at least three separate facial muscles. From the moment this Cardassian fellow had struck up a conversation at what had formerly been an excruciating post-show party, he hadn't stopped grinning like a fool and he was beginning to feel the effects. He also didn't care in the slightest. Who knew he would actually be _grateful_ to Darlinda for suggesting this affair?

Though, thinking of which. . . .

"I'm so sorry," he said once his turn came in the conversation. "But I really should go find my date and—"

" _Julian_!"

He nearly dropped his long-emptied glass at the sudden volume right by his side, and his head jerked around. Despite having exclaimed his name at a truly uncharacteristic volume, his aforementioned date was boggling at . . . his discussion partner. In turn, the man was smiling away, seeming very pleased with himself.

"Yes . . . ?" he asked hesitantly. He was missing something, wasn't he?

The feeling only intensified when Darlinda ignored him in favour of holding out her hand for the other man to shake. "Darlinda Quirl, sir, um. I'm . . . so happy to meet you!"

. . . What in the world? Darlinda was quiet, efficient, and calm no matter the situation. That (and her incredible legs) had been what had prompted him to ask her out in the first place. What had happened to her?

"A pleasure," the Cardassian responded in not-quite-concealed amusement, and only then did Darlinda turn back to him.

"Julian, did you realize you've been talking with Elim Garak this entire time?" she didn't actually demand, but he had the sense he had failed some test all the same.

"No . . . ? We didn't get the chance to introduce ourselves—Dr. Julian Bashir," he belatedly added.

Garak shook his hand with a smile, and . . . did he hold it longer than he had Darlinda's? "Ah, a doctor? Then it seems we both do some stitching in our trades. How lovely to have something in common."

"Hardly since the Dark Ages . . . what?"

Darlinda was _looking_ at him again, and back came that sense of failure.

"Julian, Elim Garak is the designer whose work we came to see in the first place. Remember?"

Oh damn. "He . . . ah, I was going to introduce you—I was!" he protested when Darlinda's brows pulled together.

"Doctor, might I borrow your padd?" Garak interrupted and Julian sent him a smile, all too grateful for the distraction.

"Yes, yes, of course." He slipped his personal reminder device from his pocket and handed it over. His fingers brushed against Garak's, and then the other man keyed in something.

"Thank you for a most entertaining conversation, Doctor." He held out the padd again; Julian took it. "And thank _you_ , Ms. Quirl, for your support of my humble work. I hope we can meet again at another of these occasions."

"Ah, Garak?" Julian asked, looking up from the line of numbers that had been entered into his padd. "What is this?"

Garak smiled. "My transmission address."

He winked and threaded through the other partygoers, leaving both Julian and Darlinda to gape after him in the space he left behind.


	3. Anonymous Love Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment the messages start, Julian knows it's going to be a dangerous shift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am pretty sure this is not what was meant by "anonymous love letters." Oops.

". . . Bicaradine and not metorapan, standard dosage," Julian read out to the waiting nurse. He didn't bother to turn from the screen; he could already hear Carruthers set to work. He was a wonderfully reliable sort and Julian strongly hoped he'd be stationed on DS9 for a long time. He was particularly good at long and tedious tasks, which this one had been. Thankfully, it was nearly over.

With that cheerful thought in mind, Julian continued, "'And might I mention you'—"

He snapped his mouth shut just in time, for the next words on the screen, displayed in stark green letters, were: _looked particularly handsome this morning._

He pulled in a long breath through his nose. So it was going to be that kind of day, then.

". . . Doctor?"

Julian smacked down on the controls; the message vanished. He then wheeled and fastened a warm smile to his face.

". . . Are doing a splendid job! Excellent work."

Carruthers went happily red and returned his smile with one that was far more sincere. "Thank you, Dr. Bashir!"

Julian turned back to the computer, flushed for a very different reason. There was no sense in being alert now—no more such messages would come for some time. It would only be when he relaxed that they would appear once more.

That moment wasn't for hours, when he was sunk in the depths of a report that was both deathly dull and only vaguely important. To be honest, it was tempting to pass it off to one of his subordinates, the way Commander Sisko passed off irritating diplomats to him . . . but that sort of attitude was not what had earned him top marks in his graduating class. No, he would simply have to struggle through.

This turned out to be the best decision he could have possibly made.

_. . . administered a hypospray with the aforementioned medication. You know, Julian, I have plans for when you get off duty. Very thorough ones._

". . . Oh no."

He should just delete the message and get on with his work. If he wanted to maintain his concentration for the remainder of his shift, he really should delete those undoubtedly dangerous paragraphs. Nothing good could come of reading them when there were three hours left until he was done for the day.

. . . Of course he kept reading.

_As thorough as only a Cardassian can be. I'm thinking . . . I just might take inspiration from the way you use that mouth of yours. You're very good with it, you know._

_In addition, I've realised that I've SHAMEFULLY neglected the insides of your thighs._

His fingers tightened on the padd.

_I have no idea how I've managed to do so for such a long time, but this oversight will have to be remedied. I'm going to learn every last square millimetre of your skin with my mouth—and, of course, my fingertips (did I mention I'm going to be thorough?) —and then, only then, I'll—_

"Dr. Bashir?"

Julian actually squawked. His hands flew away from his padd and it clattered to the table, mercifully face down.

"Ye—" He cleared his throat, swallowed, and tried again at a far more normal pitch. "Yes, Doctor?"

Dr. Neesul lifted her eyebrows, but only said, "I'm sorry for startling you, sir. I just wanted you to know I've finished checking out the latest shipment of medicine and everything is in order. Is there anything else you need me to do?"

"No, that's—yes, actually." Julian retrieved his padd, stabbed the delete button to remove the addition to his report, and then entered "GARAK STOP." After turning off the screen, he handed over the padd. "If you could deliver this to Garak the tailor, I'd be very grateful."

Dr. Neesul's expression was completely blank. (Did everyone know about his romantic life now, or was it simply three-quarters of the station?) "Yes, sir."

She departed, and only then did Julian let out the breath he'd been holding and rub at his face. As relatively empty as the infirmary currently was, it was still several minutes before he dared stand and bring his lap out from the shelter of the table.

Sometime later, Dr. Neesul returned and held out the padd. "I have a message from Mr. Garak, Doctor."

"What did he say?" he had to ask.

She kept even her body language neutral this time. "He laughed and keyed it in here."

Julian closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them reluctantly. Sadly, nothing had changed in the interim. "Thank you. That's all."

When he was sure she was busy elsewhere, along with everyone else, then and only then did Julian retrieve Garak's message:

_See you after your shift._

. . . It was going to be a long two and a half hours.


	4. Angel/Demon AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jules isn't very good at being a demon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can anyone tell I'm a fan of Good Omens?
> 
> Also, I had intended the use of "Jules" as more of a concept than anything else--the ages of angels and demons are rather hard to pin down--but it seems to have influenced me subconsciously, so this is more of a friendshippy chapter than a shippy one, really. Oh well.

Jules isn't very good at being a demon. He just can't seem to manage anything truly evil. While all his peers are out corrupting souls or discovering increasingly creative ways to inflict suffering and torment on humans, he . . . isn't really doing much of anything. He doesn't have the heart.

Or rather, he does. That's the problem.

For the first few dozen centuries of his existence, he'd been fine with muddling along as best he could. He'd get the hang of being a demon eventually. But when he overhears his parents discussing the possibility of casting a spell to turn him into the kind of demon they want him to be—at the cost of everything he is—Jules decides to take his fate into his own hands. That very evening, he goes to the one being he thinks could help him.

His friendship with Garak is the source of still more disappointment to his parents, but Jules wouldn't give it up for anything. They had met on Earth one day, when Garak had noticed him admiring his beautiful white wings in the kind of envy Jules didn't dare admit to himself. (What kind of demon would want to swap a perfectly intimidating set of bat wings for something so . . . heavenly?) Rather than shunning him as one of the Fallen, though, Garak had struck up a conversation. As it turned out, he has a talent for making Jules laugh, which is often all that keeps his miserable existence from being the wrong kind of miserable entirely.

Worryingly, Garak also seems to have a talent for evil. He has all kinds of suggestions for starting Jules off small and building him up, like spilling water on the stairs or taking people's names off telemarketer no-call lists. He finishes off his advice with an "At least, that's what I'd do—if I were a demon" and a serene smile, but all the same, Jules can't help but wonder if maybe there was a mix-up between heaven and hell when they were born.

And maybe his friendship with Garak will turn out to be not nearly so much of a disappointment to his parents as he'd thought.


	5. Bartender AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian has never met anyone better at making him forget that the role of a bartender is to listen, not to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is just a little thing based on me once again thinking about the trope, seeing where my mind automatically assumed Julian and Garak would go, and then switching their places. Julian continues to have the weirdest career path, more or less.

". . . and so after that disaster, I decided professional tennis was off the list for good," Julian finished.

"So, you took up bartending instead?" Garak prompted.

"No, first I—" He stopped and huffed a little laugh. "Garak, I've never met anyone with such a talent for making me forget all my training. I'm the bartender—you're the one who's supposed to be talking to me." He grinned. "Are you sure you aren't actually some kind of interrogator?"

Garak spread his hands, easily avoiding his half-finished drink on the bar before him. "There's nothing sinister about taking an interest in people, is there?"

"That depends" —he folded his arms and leaned on them— "on what kind of interest it is."

"Oh, only the most innocent variety, I assure you—no more for me, thank you," Garak added when Julian reached to top up his drink. He rose from his seat. "It's time this plain and simple tailor was in bed."

"All right, then. Have a good evening, Garak."

Garak pressed his payment with his usual outrageous tip into Julian's hand, the contact as always a few beats longer than typical. "You as well."

Garak was a funny one, Julian mused as he took a moment to tidy up. He came in often but never had more than one or rarely two drinks, tipped like the proverbial drunken sailor, but only occasionally sought out other company besides Julian's. It was strange. Patrons weren't friends, but . . . he was beginning to think this one might be.

He hoped so. Garak had a way of leaving him in a good mood even into the early hours of the morning. He'd—actually rather enjoy having him as a friend.

He smiled to himself. Maybe next time, he'd suggest they have a drink together while on the same side of the bar. It could be fun. Actually, with Garak, it was guaranteed to be.

Buoyed by the thought, he spent the rest of the shift whistling on and off, and not even three vomit incidents in a row could put a dent in his happy anticipation.


	6. Spin the Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At a slightly tipsy gathering of most of the senior staff of DS9 (plus Keiko and Garak), it's decided that they really should play an old Earth game Sisko recently read about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally been intending to post something else today, but then I realized at the last minute that I had left out an important scene, and so that's been put on hold until I can, uh, actually write it.
> 
> Instead, I decided to post this, which is basically me having fun with historical mix-ups. I really enjoy the idea of people in our future getting things in the present day not quite right, because, you know, if we can mess up stuff that went on much less than a hundred years ago, expecting perfect accuracy three hundred years in the future is a bit much.
> 
> Also, I really like the idea of the senior staff (and secondary characters) socialising in large groups. We mostly saw them pair off on their downtime, which was really nice, but the occasional mildly awkward night at Quark's would have been fun to see too.
> 
> This is totally silly, so don't think much more than that about it. :Db;

Not for the first time, Julian was struck by how much his life had changed in only a few short years. When he had first arrived on Deep Space 9, he'd hoped for a more casual relationship with them all, of course, even for some friendships, but he had made very certain not to raise said hopes too high. For some reason, he'd always had a little trouble making and keeping friends; there had been no reason to expect anything else at this, his first posting.

And yet here he was, sitting down and having drinks with most of the senior officers of the station, plus Keiko and Garak—who was another surprise, for many reasons. On top of everything else, his past self would be astonished that not only did he spend time with a probable spy, but he debated literature with him several times a week. He would, in fact, be very likely to look at his future (er, current) self with awe.

At that thought, he brought his attention back to the present moment, just as Commander Sisko was saying, "There's an old Earth game I was reading about recently, Spin the Bottle. As you might expect, first, you take an empty bottle and spin it. Then, when it stops, whoever it points to has to either answer a question truthfully . . . or perform a dare given by the other players." He smiled broadly. "Who would like to try it?"

"Sounds fun," Dax of course said right away. "Count me in."

"We can count Jadzia in, but that definitely counts you out, Garak." Julian grinned at his friend. "Unless you only feel like doing dares tonight."

In response, Garak feigned injury. "Now, Doctor, that was unkind of you. I always tell the truth."

"Except for right now," he returned.

Major Kira pushed back her chair. "Commander, I really should get to bed."

"Oh, stay, Major—it's just a bit of fun," Sisko urged.

"I promise we won't ask you _too_ embarrassing questions," Dax added.

The Major hesitated, then scraped her chair forward again. "Oh, all right. But you'd better mean what you say or I'm leaving."

"Don't worry. It's only a game," Sisko promised. "Here, I'll go first."

He picked up one of the empty bottles that sat on their table. He and Dax cleared a spot for it, then he turned it on its side and gave it a spin. Julian watched attentively as it slowed until the bottleneck pointed at—

"It's you, Miles!" Keiko announced on a laugh.

The Chief didn't seem nearly so amused. "Great."

"Let's see . . . ah." Sisko looked pleased. "Truth or dare: What was the biggest mistake of your life so far?"

"Coming down here for a drink," O'Brien muttered, earning himself a few chuckles and an understanding look from the Major.

"A real answer, Chief—unless you'd prefer the dare," Sisko said goodnaturedly.

The Chief was silent for a moment, his face growing increasingly red as he presumably went over the less pleasant parts of his life. But suddenly, he smiled.

"The biggest mistake of my life," he announced, "was not being faster about asking Keiko to marry me."

Julian joined the others in laughing as Keiko set a hand on his arm with an "Aww, Miles."

"Nice save, Chief!" he said to his friend.

"What? It's the truth!" the Chief protested. He looked down at the table and reached for the bottle, saying, "I suppose it's my turn now to spin this blasted thing, is it?"

Instead of waiting for an answer, he went right ahead with considerably more force than the Commander. Julian wondered if the bottle was going to end up smashing on the floor, but then it came to rest . . . pointing right at him.

His heart gave a little jump. "My turn?"

"How fortunate," Garak murmured, sounding pleased.

Not as pleased as the Chief, though. "Yeah. Okay, Julian, truth or dare: are you attracted to anyone at this table—

Oh, this was _easy_. He opened his mouth, ready to answer. . . .

"—who _isn't_ Dax."

Julian shut his mouth. Ah. Not . . . nearly so easy, then, was it?

He caught Dax's eye for a moment; she smiled impishly. He ducked his gaze away, feeling his cheeks go hot.

Damn, the Chief had put him in an awful position, he thought while his gaze travelled around the table. As lovely as the Major was, he valued his life and limbs far too much to admit to finding her attractive. Commander Sisko might be handsome, but he was too much like a father—a proper father—for him to feel anything but admiration. Keiko was as gorgeous as she was gracious, and admitting as much would earn him a fist to the nose before he could finish his sentence. (Well, all right, he was exaggerating . . . probably.) The Chief was a brilliant engineer and a terrific friend, but he wasn't . . . precisely his type. That left . . . 

Garak. He met his friend's eyes for a moment—and then his gaze lowered. Garak, who seem to be filling his thoughts between their lunches more and more lately. Whose overly long touches had begun to feel not long enough. Who had more than once appeared in the sorts of dreams he usually had about ladies who purred their words and whose legs went on nearly forever.

Garak smiled. Julian's face flooded with heat.

He swallowed, his tongue dry. "Dare."


	7. Stuck Someplace Together in Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crash-landing on a frozen planet in the middle of a blizzard is bad. But when one of your number is Cardassian...that would be worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More or less, this is me having fun with both the trope and with species differences. I've played up the Cardassian intolerance for cold and the potential reaction to frigid temperatures for the fun of it, although possibly not too much--if room temperature is too cold and a desert planet is "bracing," then I think it's pretty safe to say that this is a species that would not enjoy snow in the slightest.

Julian fired his phaser. His target—a nearby boulder—glowed a sullen red with heat before cooling to a more stable temperature. He replaced the weapon at his belt, then knelt and took Garak by his upper arms and half dragged him to his feet.

"Come on, Garak, stay with me," he urged. "We can't have you shutting down now. Keep moving!"

Garak stared at him dully, his mobile features slack and his eyes glazed. Still, he shuffled his feet a bit more quickly than before, thanks to the added heat from the ring of rocks Julian had built when it had become clear that they wouldn't be leaving this cave in any kind of a hurry.

He resisted the urge to tap his combadge and ask after Jadzia and the Chief's progress with the runabout. The last thing he should do was distract them from their work. Unless they were able to make the necessary repairs soon, it wouldn't just be Garak in trouble. There wasn't a chance his phaser or theirs would outlast this blizzard. When the last charge died. . . .

"All right, just keep it up." He took up one of Garak's hands in his; that it felt cold to his frigid touch was not a good sign. "We're going to get through this together. I promise."

He looked up from their hands just in time to see Garak's lips pull back sluggishly. He smiled back and felt his tense mucles loosen slightly.

"That's it." He pressed his hands together over top of Garak's as, slowly, he led him about the ring. "Just keep moving."


	8. Sex Pollen AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The flora on alien planets can have unexpected properties, as Garak finds out firsthand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to anyone who had been expecting something of any length for this prompt. When I arrived at this point in the list, I read the trope name and went "NOPE." So--here you are.

The good thing about having a highly accomplished doctor as a friend was that, when he was dosed by what was no doubt the sexual cousin of the Omicron pod plant on the planet on which they had just crashed, within seconds Dr. Bashir had snapped out the tricorder from his salvaged medkit, scanned him, and hit him with the appropriate hypo.

The bad thing about having a highly accomplished doctor as a friend, Garak thought a bit wistfully, was that Dr. Bashir had been so fast at bringing him back to his wits, he hadn't had the chance to find out if that slim Human body felt half as good against him as he imagined it would.

Oh well. Perhaps his doctor would be a little slower the next time. . . .


	9. Matching Soulmate Markings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian has decided to at last take the big step of showing Elim his soulmark, but what's supposed to be a straightforward relationship event...isn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually knew very little about this trope and had to look it up when I arrived at this point on the list. I then proceeded to NOPE pretty hard about it, particularly after a series of discussions with [bendingsignpost](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/) about all the many unfortunate implications a trope like this has.
> 
> Actually, this is my second version of the fic. My first time through, I tried to eliminate as many of the aforementioned unfortunate implications as I could, but when I came back to what I had written after leaving it for a while, I realised that I'd only gotten rid of some of them and the result was still creepy. I'm pretty sure I've missed still more unfortunate implications in this rewrite (and sometimes Julian's thought processes don't help), but given the problematic nature of the trope, I figure there's only so much I can do.
> 
> So with that enthusiastic introduction...enjoy the fic?

Dessert was long finished, there was barely a sip of wine left in his glass, and Julian was running out of time.

He was a complete wreck. He'd hardly eaten a thing and he'd sweated through his best shirt. For once, Elim's wonderful company was doing nothing to calm him. On the contrary, the longer he spent with his partner, the more pieces he fell to.

He had to find out and it had to be that night. No, it had to be now. Now . . . _now_.

"Julian."

Julian's hand jerked and, oh, nice _work_ , there went the remainder of his wine all over the tablecloth.

The next few moments were spent blotting up the mercifully small mess; by the time Julian was ready to respond, his face was very flushed indeed.

"Yes, Elim?" he tried to ask normally.

Elim was smiling at him, his head tilted just slightly to one side. "You've seemed preoccupied tonight. Is something the matter?"

"No, no." He took in a breath. "No, it's just. . . ."

He could hear his heart pounding in his head and he truly hoped he wouldn't finish off his humiliation by passing out before he could say another word. It took the greatest of will, but he managed to unstick his tongue from his mouth and force himself to say, "I wanted to show you my . . . my mark."

At once, he had Elim's complete attention; he had never before seen a look so sharp on his partner's face.

" _Do_ you?" He smiled, but for once, the expression seemed perfunctory, lacking his usual good humour. "I'm honoured."

Julian swallowed, then pushed back his sleeve and held out his forearm. "Here."

The soulmark wasn't much to look at, truthfully. It wasn't a clear, defined shape like some—a shooting star, a rose, a heart—but more of a muddle, really. As a child, he'd thought it looked like a tree, but . . . no, it didn't really look like anything.

Except to Elim, who was staring at it with widened eyes and a growing expression of elation.

"It's the same?" Julian asked on a croak, but that little embarrassment didn't matter now, not at all, not even a little.

"The very same," Elim answered—breathed, more like.

It might not mean anything, the fearful part of him said, trying to drag down his rising happiness. Remember your genetic engineering. Remember what the doctors told your parents—remember what your parents told you.

He refused to listen. Not here, not now, he was _not_ going to have this moment taken from him.

He reached out and seized Elim's hand, perhaps too tightly. "Can I see it?"

"Not in a public place, my dear, unless you really do want to make this a night to remember," Elim told him.

He laughed, too loudly and too much, but he didn't care. He lowered his voice. "Then let's go to a private place."

"I'd love to, but . . . there's the matter of that client I told you about. I'm afraid I need to leave you here." He leaned forward with an intense look that made their public table as intimate as a bedroom. "But tomorrow. . . ."

Julian leaned in as well, unable and unwilling to resist. "Yes—tomorrow will certainly be different."

They rose, already acting as one, and Elim kissed him, right in front of the entire restaurant. Applause sounded around them—the nearby tables must have heard the whole thing—but Julian didn't take his eyes from Elim's face for a moment.

"Until then."

He left after that, and Julian watched every last step he took with a determinedly light heart.

*

His heart wasn't nearly so light once he had returned to the silence of his apartment. He made it only a few steps inside before he simply could no longer move.

Elim might have the same soulmark, but he wouldn't be intended for Julian Bashir, would he? Not when _Jules_ Bashir was his true match.

His legs abruptly became too weak to support him. He dropped to the floor and covered his face. Back at the restaurant, he'd wanted to believe their matching marks had meant something, that they truly were each other's soulmates. There was still hope: the doctors didn't know for certain the impact his radical genetic engineering would have on his soulmark. After all, how could they study the effects of an illegal surgery? It could be that even if he had been fundamentally changed, his true match would remain the same.

But could he really take the chance of binding Elim to someone who wasn't his soulmate?

Why was he even asking himself such a ridiculous question?

He dragged himself up from the floor and forced himself to his bedroom. It was much earlier than he usually went to sleep, but at this point, it was either go to bed or finish off the rest of the alcohol in the fridge. And the last thing he wanted was a hangover to interfere with driving away the man he loved, soulmate or not, forever.

He spent a long time staring at his arm before he shoved it under a pillow and made a useless attempt at sleep.

*

"My dear, what in the world is the matter?" were Elim's first words to him. Why he'd thought he could hide anything from his partner was beyond him.

He shook his head. "Come in and sit down. We need to talk."

"Of course. Whatever you wish."

Elim reached out to touch him, to comfort him, but Julian stepped away. The sight of Elim pausing and then returning his hand to his side was one more blow to bear.

Once he was sitting opposite Elim, himself on the couch and his partner in the chair, he didn't hesitate. Doing this any way but bluntly would make him lose his nerve beyond recovery. 

He looked Elim straight in his beautiful blue eyes and said, "I may not be your soulmate."

Elim blinked at him, once, twice, three times. "And what could possibly make you believe such a thing?"

He had to keep looking at Elim. He owed him at least that. "You've heard about my genetic enhancements. Well, one of the little problems with illegal surgeries is there's very little research done into side effects, particularly side effects involving soulmarks. It could be, despite everything that was done to me, that there are no side effects at all. It could be that my mark has been made completely useless. I don't know. But ever since I learned what my parents had done to me, I've had to live with the knowledge that if I use my soulmark as a guide, I'm taking the chance of trapping an innocent person into a false marriage."

He bit down on his lip for a moment. The discomfort was enough to push him forward to say, "I can't do that to you, Elim. I can't keep the truth from you. You have the right to know what you're getting into."

There had been a great many reactions he had been expecting from Elim, most of them negative. None of them had included laughter. And yet there Elim sat, a hand over his face, shaking with it.

". . . Elim?" Had he somehow sent his partner into hysterics?

"Oh my dear, dear Julian." Elim lifted his hand from his face. "And here I was coming to lay a confession of my own at your feet."

His mouth fell open. He couldn't manage to shut it. "You . . . a confession?"

"That's right." He left his chair to join him on the couch and take up his hands. "I lied to you in the restaurant. Our soulmarks don't bear the slightest resemblance. I hardly wished to advertise such a fact, however, when it didn't matter to me." He pressed Julian's hands. "Mark or no mark, genetic engineering or otherwise, my heart is only yours."

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't even say which emotion had jammed up his chest and was making him shake. "But—your soulmate—"

"If they truly are my perfect match, they'll love me enough to let me go."

It was heresy, sacrilege of the most shocking kind. It was true he'd always sympathised with the dissidents, with those who fought the soulmarks to choose their own fate, but it was one thing to sympathise and another to _be _one of them.__

__"Will you stay with me, even knowing the truth?" Elim asked._ _

__Julian didn't speak right away. He tightened his fingers around Elim's, tried to read past the image Elim was projecting—but he wasn't projecting anything right now, was he? Elim was being sincere. And . . . he was pleading, with the strength of his grip and the growing uncertainty of his expression._ _

__To ignore his soulmark would be to go against what he'd been told all his life, even after his surgery had perhaps rendered the mark useless. It wasn't right. It was unnatural._ _

__But, then again. . . ._ _

__"I will," he said, his mouth dry._ _

__The warmth of Elim's joy evaporated most of his uncertainties. It was incredible: he couldn't remember ever seeing a smile so beautiful on his partner's face. Elim leaned forward, and so did Julian, and he had time for only one last thought:_ _

__To disregard one's soulmark was unnatural. But then again, so was he. It was time for him to seize control of that, to go against the order of things in a way that brought him—and Elim—love and happiness._ _


	10. Deserted Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Garak and Julian get stranded on a remote Bajoran island, it isn't quite as much of a disaster as matters first appeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever so slightly AU, so that these two can go on a trip without worrying about assassination attempts. Assume that Garak's exile included Bajor as well as Deep Space Nine. :D;;

Julian had to admit, he'd been rather concerned. Earlier that day, he and Garak had taken a boat out to an isolated island off the coast of the mainland to have a bit of a vacation together. It had been an enjoyable and restful day for both of them, right up to the point when their boat had utterly refused to start back up once it was time to leave. And while the place had been every bit as beautiful as they'd been promised, it was also not well marked on any map. It had been looking as though he and Garak were in for a long, uncomfortable wait together.

But then Garak had done something fiddly with Julian's combadge to triple its signal range, easily putting them in touch with a coast guard station on the mainland. The officer on duty had promised to have a ship to them within a couple of hours, and that had been that. 

While they were waiting, Garak had hunted down a palukoo and, after a bit of thinking back to the book he'd been reading about the native fauna of Bajor, Julian had been able to locate a few herbs for their meal. He'd also picked up some kindling, Garak had dressed the meat and started the fire, and by the time supper was ready, their unfortunate incident had turned into a pleasant adventure.

"I should make a point of travelling with you more often, Garak," he said after swallowing a mouthful of his surprisingly delicious portion. "You certainly are a man of many talents."

"Really, Doctor, you flatter me," Garak replied, self-effacing as always. "I only made use of a few tricks I picked up here and there."

"Yes, during your days as a spy."

"Now, now, that's unfair of you. Simply because I've made electronics a hobby—"

"And you were able to take down that palukoo in no time flat," Julian put in.

"—is no reason to call me a spy," he went on as if he hadn't been interrupted. "Why, if we're using that kind of logic, I should be calling you a witch. After all, you found those delectable herbs very quickly indeed."

Julian grinned at him across the fire and let the subject drop. "In all seriousness, though, we really should do this more often. This is the best day I've had for ages."

"Mm, perhaps. But I'd prefer not to assume that our next boat will make it to shore before breaking down, as this one did." He gave Julian a look from beneath his brow ridges. "It's been quite a while since I last went swimming. I should hate to discover I've gotten rusty."

"Ah. Good point, yes," he conceded.

All the same, he thought as they finished supper together, it had been a delightful day. And if there were anyone better to go on an adventure with than Garak, he certainly couldn't imagine who it might be.


	11. Meet in a Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a telepathic virus strikes DS9 in Julian's first week on the station, he couldn't be more excited--especially when he begins receiving the speech of one of the station's most notorious residents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another one I had to rewrite because I was dissatisfied with the way I had initially handled the trope. (Tbh it's another trope that, uh, pretty much does nothing for me.) The second attempt proceeded to turn into one of my favourite fics of the challenge. Season 1 Julian, you are an adorkable mess.

Life out on the frontier—no, no, he shouldn't put it like that, lest Major Kira catch him. Life on DS9 (much better) was proving to be every bit as much of an adventure as he'd hoped. Not even a week since he'd arrived—six days, in fact—and already half the station had been stricken with some sort of . . . telepathic disease. The afflicted were either broadcasting everything they said aloud or receiving it from someone (or several someones) else. It had probably originated in the Gamma Quadrant, was simply fascinating, and fortunately, as far as anyone could tell, was harmless. 

The worst case he'd seen was Nurse Jabara, who apparently had the entirety of Quark's chattering in her head, poor woman. He'd relieved her of duty and sent her to her quarters with a hypo of ambizine so she could knock herself out until a cure was found. That left them short-staffed at the infirmary, but Julian was positive his team could rise to the challenge.

He himself was a receiver, thankfully of only one person's speech. Whoever they might have been, they were clearly a mutterer, and just as clearly displeased about something. Not that it bothered him—on the contrary, it was rather cosy. The speaker had a pleasant voice despite his irritation and, well, no one in the infirmary was speaking very much in case they were a transmitter (or a rare receiver-transmitter). If it weren't for the disease, he would have found the silence highly distracting.

As he tried to work out a cure, he also tried to discover the identity of his . . . companion, he supposed. Initially, it was difficult—the man only spoke in snatches or, occasionally, swore. But then he got his first sentence:

 _It's beyond me how Starfleet could wear this many holes in their uniforms in six days. I'm beginning to think they're made out of_ gauze.

Julian's mouth dropped open. "It's the spy!"

Dr. Rawat looked up from the computer model they'd all been constructing. ". . . Sorry?"

"That's whose voice I've been hearing—it's the spy's!" Julian explained as he fought the urge to roam around the infirmary in excitement. "I'll have to pay close attention in case he contacts one of his, um, contacts."

"What's he been talking about?" Nurse Bevar asked.

"Well . . . sewing. But I'm sure he'll let slip important information if I just keep listening!" he added quickly.

"Yes, sir." Nurse Bevar went back to her work.

It was a tricky thing to balance, listening for clues indicating a threat to the security of the station and coming up with the cure for a brand new alien disease, but if anyone could manage it, he could—and he did. By the end of the evening, he and his team had solved the puzzle and had tracked down everyone who had been affected.

He left curing himself almost to the very end, in case his adversary let slip anything at the last minute. Dr. Rawat volunteered to be the one to administer the medication to the spy when he arrived, and though the older man seemed to find something amusing about his investigation, Julian accepted his offer all the same. It wouldn't do to let the spy know he was on to him.

He kept himself tucked away in the next room and replicating more hypos when the spy came to the infirmary for his shot of the cure. It was a disorienting experience to hear the spy's responses to Dr. Rawat doubled inside his head, but what was most jarring of all were his words just before Dr. Rawat administered the hypo:

_To the person who's been listening to me all day: I'm afraid our connection will be severed here. I hope I wasn't too tiresome, and I apologise for any impolite language you might have heard in a moment of frustration. Please don't think too poorly of me._

He very nearly emerged from his hiding place right then to assure the spy that he entirely understood, but he forced himself to stay where he was. Showing himself now would be blowing his cover, or . . . something like that. Whatever it was, he didn't want to do it.

"I'm ready now, Doctor."

Julian heard the hiss of the hypo, and then—his mind was alone. It was an unpleasant sensation, surprisingly so. He could hear the spy talking to Dr. Rawat in the next room, but it wasn't enough; he strained to have the voice back inside his mind as well.

He picked up a hypo and dosed himself with the cure as Dr. Rawat finished up with the spy. There was no sense in keeping himself ill and contagious if there was nothing left to learn.

He stepped out of the room and went to the entrance of the infirmary in time to watch the departure of a grey-skinned man with black hair, dressed in a surprisingly colourful outfit. (He'd been expecting something all black, possibly involving leather.) Hemade certain to monitor him until he was out of sight past the curve of the promenade.

He'd just have to find another way to keep an eye on the spy, it seemed, one that didn't involve the man unconsciously broadcasting his every word. Perhaps he would casually stop by his shop in a day or two and pretend to take an interest in what he had on offer. It would be a more sporting—and frankly more exciting—way to conduct his surveillance.

Decided, he smiled and walked back into the infirmary. The game was afoot, and he couldn't possibly be more excited to play it.


	12. Arranged Marriage AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the business with the Maquis, Cardassia's Central Command suggests a grand gesture to demonstrate the renewed commitment to peace between the governments of the Federation and the Union. They also know exactly who will be making that gesture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So from about this point on, things started getting away from me. :D;; My fics started getting longer and longer, and a few of them spawned their own AUs for me to follow up on later.
> 
> This would be one of them. Normally, "arranged marriage" is a trope I'm rather tired of--before learning how to find good romance novels as a teenager, I read anything I could get my hands on and that rather burned me out. But this, however, is another of my very favourite pieces in the entire series. I've even written a follow-up, with one more planned (although when I'll get to it is anyone's guess). So, uh, there you go.

"The Commander isn't usually late like this—did something happen?" Julian asked as he came to a stop before the central table in ops.

"Benjamin took a call from Starfleet about five minutes before the meeting was due to start," Dax explained. "He was hoping it would be short."

Odo made a disgusted sound. "When _isn't_ Starfleet needlessly longwinded?"

"When it comes to admitting their mistakes," Major Kira answered him. 

Julian avoided her gaze. After working with the Major for over a year now, he could understand that there were a lot of things about the Federation that frustrated her, but he rather wished she wouldn't vent about them with three Starfleet officers at the table.

Four Starfleet officers, he mentally amended as Commander Sisko banged into ops. 

. . . That wasn't promising.

Kira spoke what was on all their minds when she greeted him with, "Commander. I take it your meeting didn't go well."

"I have _never_ met a more shortsighted bunch of out-of-touch _fools_ in my entire life!" 

Dax leaned forward to rest her hand on the Commander's forearm. "Benjamin, what happened? What did they say?"

"They _said_ —" Sisko took in a deep breath. When he spoke next, his voice was quieter—but no less furious. "They said the Federation Council and Cardassian Central Command have agreed that there needs to be a 'grand gesture' to act as a symbol of the renewed peace between our peoples after the conflict with the Maquis."

"What kind of gesture are they talking about?" Major Kira asked in clear (and, Julian had to admit probably justified) suspicion.

"An arranged marriage," Sisko bit out.

And that was the end of orderly calm in ops for a good minute.

"This is ridiculous! Why on Earth would the Council agree to something so foolish?" Chief O'Brien demanded. "And who the hell do they think is going to participate in this farce? I can't see many people lining up to marry a stranger!"

"Apparently, Central Command suggested it—from what I understand, the only thing more important to a Cardassian than family is the state." No need to guess what the Commander thought of those priorities. "They've already selected their 'volunteer.' Now I've been told it's time for us to find one of our own."

"Who have they chosen?" Dax asked. "Do we know anything about them? It would let us make this easier on whoever volunteers to be able to share a little information about who they'd be marrying."

"Oh, we know who they've chosen, but that doesn't mean we know anything about them." Sisko grimaced. "Central Command's choice was our simple tailor, Mr. Garak."

Julian didn't hear the reactions from the others; the moment the Commander had uttered that very loaded adjective, his stomach had plunged. Poor Garak. It was all so unfair. Lately, he'd been getting the sense that his friend was unhappy on the station and this certainly wasn't going to help. Not only couldn't he go home (Julian was almost sure of it—as sure as anyone could be with Garak), but now his government was making him marry a stranger against his will.

He turned his attention back to the discussion.

"You're not getting _me_ to marry him, sir," Chief O'Brien was declaring.

. . . Wait a minute.

"I don't think you'll find anyone who wouldn't strangle him before even a month was up," Major Kira added.

It was all so . . . simple.

"Yes, you will, Commander," Julian said. He tried to smile at the others, but his lips only twitched and refused to lift. "I'll marry him."

Immediately, he was the focus of everyone's attention.

The Commander was the first to speak. "Dr. Bashir, just because Garak is your friend doesn't mean you need to marry him. Your duty to Starfleet only extends so far."

"On the contrary, Commander, it's because Garak is my friend that it wouldn't be a duty," Julian answered. He took in a breath and now, finally, he could make his mouth do what it was supposed to. "We already get on well, and since it's meant to be an arranged marriage, no one would expect us to pretend to be in love. It wouldn't be forever—would it?" he suddenly caught himself.

For the first time, Sisko looked calm—and thoughtful. "Only until relations between Cardassia and the Federation stabilise. I'd say . . . two, three years at most."

"So there you are," Julian said, and really, it was incredible how . . . how easy everything seemed.

"I thought you said you didn't believe marriage and a Starfleet career went together," Chief O'Brien challenged.

Julian was ready for that. "That's just it, Chief—this is simply another part of my career. They did say at the academy to be ready for anything."

Though, he admitted to himself, this probably wasn't what his professors had meant.

Still, while giving up dating for a couple of years would be . . . not ideal, he'd survive if it meant keeping Garak from a miserable marriage. And he'd welcome the chance to get to know his mysterious friend better. Though not . . . as better as most married people got to know one another. That would be—that would be odd. Because, well, it was _Garak_.

"I'll give you some time to think over your decision," Sisko told him. "Don't feel as if you need to give me your answer right away."

Julian shook his head. "Thank you, Commander, but that isn't necessary. I won't be changing my mind."

Major Kira shook her head as well, but for a very different reason. "Better you than me, Doctor."

Odo made a noise of agreement.

"All right, then. Odo, have someone bring Mr. Garak up to my office." He smiled. "It's time to share the happy news."

*

The entire way to see Commander Sisko, Garak was thinking hard. He couldn't recall anything he'd done recently that would have earned the man's anger (well . . . nothing Sisko would have learned about), and he was certain Sisko wasn't pining for the pleasure of his company. He was being accompanied by a security officer, it was true—and he was earning suspicious looks from every Bajoran they met—but the man seemed very relaxed: hardly someone Sisko would have sent after him if he were in some sort of trouble.

The presence of Dr. Bashir in Sisko's office only gave him more details to pick away at. The good doctor appeared nervous about some matter, but . . . not unhappily so, he thought. And while Sisko seemed grave, Garak could spot just a hint of humour around the Human's eyes. Something was amusing him, and Garak rather suspected he was about to be let in on the joke.

He did so hope it was an entertaining one.

Rather than allow Sisko to take control of the situation, Garak made sure to be the one to speak first. Putting his most genial smile on his face, he clasped his hands before him and said, "Commander! How lovely to see you again. You haven't taken me up on my offer to get fitted for a suit yet. I was quite sincere about it, you know—stop by anytime."

"I don't doubt your sincerity, Mr. Garak," Sisko said in a tone that indicated precisely the opposite. "But perhaps later. At the moment, you and I and Dr. Bashir need to have a discussion."

"Do we? Is there something wrong, Doctor?" he asked mildly, turning toward the other man.

Dr. Bashir's already evident flush deepened and he took in a breath—but a smile relaxed his features the moment their eyes met. "Ah, not _wrong_ , precisely."

Interesting. "Then is there something right?"

"Well. . . ." Dr. Bashir's gaze darted to Sisko.

"I've received word from Central Command," Sisko cut in. Abruptly (but not obviously, never obviously), he had Garak's full attention. It had been well over a week since anyone from Central Command had last communicated with him—and in that time, they had spoken to Sisko instead?

Admittedly, it _had_ been a busy week for Union-Federation relations, but if anything, that only pointed even more strongly to him being deliberately left out. It never turned out well for him when that happened.

"I'm sure you're well aware of the recent business with the Maquis, and there's no point in pretending otherwise," Sisko went on.

Garak tilted his head to one side. "The Maquis? Now who might they be?"

He received the sort of look a father with a teenager must employ frequently; Garak nearly broke his innocent act to smile.

But then Sisko wisely gave up. "To demonstrate the renewed commitment to the treaty our two governments share, Central Command suggested and the Federation Council agreed to an arranged marriage between one of their citizens and one of ours."

There was no need for Sisko to go on, although doubtless he would. Every necessary fact lay before him as if on a table for him to arrange, and the shape those facts made. . . .

He couldn't possibly be this fortunate—not him. Not after two years of the most miserable luck any Cardassian had ever suffered. But there were very few other plausible ways to read the signs.

He didn't show Sisko that he'd already reached the conclusion, but let him think he'd only made it part of the way. "Let me guess: I'm to be the lucky groom."

"I'm afraid so." Surprisingly, for all Sisko plainly disliked him, he seemed sincere. It appeared there was more of their doctor in him than Garak had first thought.

"How strange. I would have thought Central Command would have chosen someone far more prestigious than a mere tailor to represent their side of the union. Cardassia must not be as committed to this treaty as they say."

"Apparently, they believe there's no better choice than someone who's already very familiar with the Federation—someone who works beside its people every day," Sisko answered, his voice very dry. Clever man. He wasn't the sort to unquestioningly accept the official story, unlike most Federation officers he'd met.

Garak nodded a few times. "I see. And who is to be my spouse?"

"That's . . . where I come in," Dr. Bashir answered for Sisko, so earnestly that it was almost impossible to keep a straight face. "You see, I . . . I've volunteered. To, well. Marry you."

He'd seen this coming from light years away, he'd known precisely where the conversation had been leading and had been well prepared for it, but hearing those words in Dr. Bashir's soft-spoken voice was just too much for him.

Garak laughed. Loudly and with enough force to cramp his stomach, he laughed.

This was beautiful. This was the best day of his life. And he knew _exactly_ who he had to thank.

As soon as he could, he took Dr. Bashir's upper arms in his hands. In a voice shaking with mirth, he told him, "I hope you don't take offence, my dear Doctor—rest assured, I'm not laughing at your incredibly kind offer. But surely you can see the absurdity of the situation."

That gorgeous hazel gaze flicked over his features. Then Dr. Bashir gave him the sort of soft smile that made him fall in love for the countless time. (How did he keep doing that? It was all perfectly by accident, but as effective as if the Doctor had calculated every last one of his weaknesses. It was almost beyond credibility.) 

"It is all rather ridiculous, isn't it?" Dr. Bashir agreed. "But I'm serious, Garak. I'm going to volunteer to be the Federation's representative."

Garak gave his right arm a squeeze. "Now, Doctor. You aren't doing this because of some deep-seated Human addiction to self-sacrifice, are you? Because if you are, I can assure you—" 

"I'm not," Dr. Bashir interrupted, and Garak's eyes widened in spite of himself.

He leaned forward, very much into his space, and went on, "It's the best thing for everyone. Our governments get a pair of people who already get along and you don't have to marry a stranger who's been forced into this position out of duty."

"And what do you get out of this?" he asked, his voice dropping quite without his intent.

Dr. Bashir smiled again. "Why, the opportunity to get to know you better."

The urge to kiss him for that, to lean forward that slight amount, was dangerously strong. Only his full awareness of Sisko kept him where he was. "You hardly need to marry me to do that, you do realise."

"Yes, but it's certainly the fastest way," Dr. Bashir countered. "Let's say I'm feeling a bit impatient."

"Not too impatient, I hope," Sisko broke in.

Garak felt Dr. Bashir jump beneath his hands; obviously he had forgotten they had company. He let go of the Doctor and turned to face Sisko once more.

"Provided both of you are in agreement, I'll send word to Starfleet Headquarters that we've already found our volunteer." Sisko smiled. "I'm sure they'll be impressed with our efficiency."

"Well, I agree to the proposal. What about you, Garak?" Dr. Bashir asked, once again looking a bit flushed.

"Oh, I agree, too," he answered cheerfully—but then, for one brief moment, he let his smile turn genuine. "Thank you, Doctor. You've saved me from a very awkward fate."

"All right, then." Sisko pressed a button on his desk; the door slid open behind them. "I'll keep you both informed of the details as I receive them."

"Thank you, Commander."

"Yes, thank you." He would have asked Sisko to thank Central Command on his behalf—specifically a certain near-disgraced gul—but as that would be akin to painting a target on Dr. Bashir's forehead, he refrained.

Instead, he added, "Oh, and Commander? When you do get around to stopping by for that suit . . . it's on the house. Consider it my own way of renewing the bond between our states."

Sisko sounded amused as he replied, "I'll keep that in mind. Good day, Mr. Garak, Dr. Bashir. You're dismissed."

The doors closed behind them as they left, and—Garak smiled again. Sisko's wish for them had already come true. It was a good day.

After all, he'd just been told to marry the man he loved for the sake of the state and was making an enemy's plan backfire by being delighted to do it. Days couldn't possibly get better than that.


	13. Handcuffed Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian thinks things are looking rather grim when he and Garak are captured by the Romulans. As it turns out, they aren't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This trope was made for these two and I was very amused when I got to it. (I also tried to keep this one short in reaction to the previous chapter. It worked for today's fic, then stopped working after that for the most part.)

"Our leader will come to you shortly. In the meantime, I hope you will take the time to meditate on your crimes." The Romulan man strode from the cell; behind him, the force field flickered into operation.

Julian sat back against the wall and let out a sigh. "Now what? Without my combadge, we can't—Garak, what are you doing?"

He had just enough time to look down at where Garak had been one-handedly fiddling with their joint set of handcuffs before Garak went "Ah!", the handcuffs went "Beep!", and abruptly they were free of their restraints.

"There." Garak sounded very pleased with himself. "Now, about that force field."

Julian couldn't have stopped his grin even if he'd wanted to. "Garak. . . ."

"As it turns out, Doctor, the Romulans use the same technology in their restraints as is in my sewing machine." Garak, having found a way to pry away a section of the wall, started playing with something inside. "It's remarkably convenient."

"Oh, now you're not even _trying_."

The field vanished. Garak smiled. "I'm sure I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about. Shall we be on our way?"


	14. Stripper AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian is never, ever letting Commander Sisko foist a pack of ambassadors on him ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had fun with messing with expectations in this one. I do so love messing with expectations. :D

This, Julian vowed to himself, was the very last time he would allow Commander Sisko to foist a group of ambassadors on him. It had been bad enough when they had merely been argumentative. He'd learned to handle that rather well, he thought. He could cope with argumentative.

He wasn't sure, however, he could cope with a strip club.

As the most recent set of (all male) strippers finished up their routine, Julian tried very hard not to check the time . . . again. It wouldn't have been so bad if there had been some women. It would have been—strange, with representatives of three different governments sharing his table, but it wouldn't have been the worst thing he'd done. 

Unfortunately, out of the four of them, he was the only one who fancied women, and so that had been that. Instead of potentially being rather enjoyable, the evening had become . . . well, boring and a touch annoying, frankly. There was simply nothing like being the only one not having fun at a table where no one cared one whit about you.

He couldn't quite keep in a sigh as the music changed once more, from some sort of heavy pounding (oh, yes, very subtle) to something a little more . . . fluid. Sinuous, he supposed. That caught his attention to a mild degree, if only because it meant he was about to be bored in a different way.

But then the Cardassian sauntered onto the stage.

Julian frowned. Now this was a puzzle. While the man was hardly unattractive, he didn't exactly have the same look as the many, many (many, many) other men Julian had seen that night. What was so special about him, then?

The Cardassian let his gaze play lazily across the audience as he remained unmoving on the stage—and when he came to Julian. . . .

No, he had to be imagining it. Those intense blue eyes weren't fixed on him, were they?

The musical introduction ended. The man onstage began his routine. And Julian became much less sure about many things, such as the need to breathe and his own sexuality. The only certainties were that the man's unblinking eyes really were for him, that they never left him for a moment, and that the building could burn down around his ears, taking the ambassadors and his Starfleet career with it, before he stopped watching the loose-hipped movements of the man before him.

When the routine was over (far too soon), the Andorian ambassador tapped his shoulder.

"I'm glad we found someone to your liking," he said kindly. "I was beginning to worry it was going to be a bit of a dull evening for you."

Julian's mouth was far too dry to form words in response, but really, it hardly mattered. At long last, he had found someone capable of rendering him speechless.


	15. Office Romance AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever since transferring to this particular building of Deep Space Co., Julian has had an unusual problem: he's getting along too well with one coworker in particular. Now he and Elim are facing the (hopefully metaphorical) firing squad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er...hi. :D;; I didn't mean to go on hiatus, but it's amazing what moving 1800 km, spending two weeks in another country, and apartment hunting will do to your free time. I don't think I'm going to be right up to my usual schedule for a while yet, but I do hope to post more often from now on.
> 
> Another contributing factor to the space between updates would be that this was yet another trope that I needed to rewrite. I just wasn't happy with how it had turned out and the decisions I had made about the AU, so there was a fair bit of reworking going on. It's still not my favourite, but I like it a lot more than I did when I first started editing! :D;

"If I didn't know you better, I'd say you truly believe that our illustrious boss has a firing squad lined up in his office," Elim observed.

For once, Julian didn't smile. Considering Elim making him smile was what had got the two of them an invitation to their division manager's office, it was understandable why his sense of humour had gone on vacation. Especially since he had the awful feeling he'd be permanently joining it. The idea of attempting to find a new job in this economy after being fired from his last was already giving him a horrific tension headache.

"I wouldn't be surprised, given how much of a nuisance we've been," he answered back. "We've driven him up the wall and back down again since the day I transferred here. I'm almost certain he nearly strangled us with his bare hands on four separate occasions."

Elim raised a finger. "The key word, my dear Julian, is 'nearly.' Don't worry. Matters aren't nearly so dire as you seem to believe."

Julian rubbed at his face with both hands. "I only wish I could believe that."

God, he wasn't going to humiliate himself further by vomiting all over Ben's office, was he?

He still couldn't get over that he'd come to this point. He'd never thought, before meeting Elim, that getting along well with someone could be a problem. Frankly, his workplace experiences tended to involve the reverse. But he and Elim had hit it off tremendously—so tremendously that often it was difficult to recall their purpose for being in Deep Space Co.'s building. This had not sat well with the regional manager, Benjamin Sisko. 

He'd tried to shape up, he really had. A part of him was still a schoolboy, fearing the guilt that came with a lecture, and that had given him plenty of motivation. But then Elim would tempt him with a witty observation, a bit of sarcasm, or, in some cases, by handing over a new book for him to try, and he'd be lost once again. And now they were about to pay the price for their relationship.

Behind the desk a few metres before them, Jadzia, Ben's secretary (and unofficial left-hand woman to Ms. Kira's right), looked up.

"Benjamin is ready for you now," she told them with a sympathetic smile. "Good luck, you two."

"I only regret that I have but one job to lose for my company," Elim said lightly. 

Julian was immediately caught between wanting to groan, laugh, and be the one responsible for any strangling going on today. Jadzia faced no such conflict: she chortled.

"Nice one."

"You're too kind."

" _Elim_. . . ." This was really getting out of hand and they _really_ couldn't afford that!

"I'll behave, Julian. I promise." 

Elim smiled. It wasn't his usual expression of good humoured teasing (or, when directed at certain other people, mockery), but something genuine and rare. In spite of everything, Julian returned it. He couldn't help it; Elim just had one of those smiles.

When he looked away from his friend and back to their destination, however, his smile fell off a cliff. Time to get this over with.

Ben took his time starting the conversation—and even turning around—which was almost certainly to make them sweat. He appeared to be calm, but given the force with which he'd been gripping his desktop baseball behind his back, it wasn't surprising when his words were so clipped, they may as well have been snapped off completely.

"I don't need to tell you why you're here."

"No, sir," Julian replied softly; Elim didn't bother to speak.

"And I don't need to tell you what my expectations were."

"No, sir." 

At last, he turned. "I warned you both the last time that there would be consequences if you kept being so unprofessional, so I _also_ don't need to rehash our last meeting." He levelled a hard look at both of them. "That's why you've left me with no choice but to—"

"Mr. Sisko, might I interrupt?"

Julian actually covered his face. No, no, no!

"Yes, Mr. Garak?" Ben asked, his tone exceptionally pleasant. That was, just possibly, the worst sign of all.

How on Earth did Elim think _this_ counted as behaving?

He made himself, with great effort, take his hand from his face in time to see Elim step forward with his usual genial smile.

"While it's been a pleasure working with you these past years, lately, I've felt it's time to try something new," he said, so very reasonably. "I've decided that what I'd really like to do is begin work as a clothier. So, I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I'll be submitting my resignation, effective immediately." 

And then, as Julian and his almost-certainly-soon-to-be-former boss stood astounded at Elim's brazenness, Elim turned to Julian.

"I understand this is rather out of your usual scope," he said, still the epitome of reason, "but running a shop alone is rather difficult. Would you, if you'll consent to have me, be my—assistant?"

"I-I'm, um, dreadful at sewing," he managed, instead of a proper answer like, "You must be joking" or, "This wouldn't be remotely good for my career."

"That's quite all right," Elim replied. "Someone needs to handle accounts."

"Well, uh. . . ." He looked to Ben reflexively, though he had no idea what help he was expecting.

The other man rubbed at his forehead. "I'm only going to fire you. Go ahead. As long as you aren't my problem anymore, you can do whatever you want."

With the oddest sense that reality had become detached somewhere, he looked back at Elim. "That sounds very . . . interesting? I suppose I accept?"

"Splendid!" Elim beamed. "I have a lovely bit of property lined up. We'll go look at it first thing tomorrow. Now, we shouldn't take up any more of Mr. Sisko's time—he's a very busy man, after all." He gave a slight bow. "Good day."

"Good day," Julian echoed, for lack of anything else to say.

Ben gave them both an exasperated look, but said only, "Good day, gentlemen. Have your belongings cleared out by three."

As they left the office, Julian couldn't stop himself from darting little glances at Garak. His friend seemed very pleased, but as for himself—it was as if he'd been abruptly cut loose from mooring. Then again, he thought, because Elim was going to be with him all the way . . . the feeling wasn't really very bad at all.


	16. Seven Minutes in Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian knows that someone will rescue them from this supply closet soon. Garak knows that someone will rescue them from this supply closet soon. It's just Garak's claustrophobia that hasn't got the message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, but honestly, with one half of this couple excruciatingly claustrophobic, it would have taken some serious gymnastics to make this one any longer. Whoops.
> 
> Before we get going, I want to thank everyone who's commented to my fics over the past few months. My brain weather has been...less than ideal lately, so I haven't been able to respond to comments, but I hope you all know how much I treasure every one. When things are going a bit better inside my head, I hope to give all of you the thoughtful responses you deserve. That just may not be for a while. But until then--thank you. <3

"It's going to be all right, Elim, I promise we'll be out of here soon. Just keep breathing," he urged, holding his partner by the upper arms. It was in part for comfort, and in part because there was nowhere else to put his hands.

"Of _course_ it's all right." Elim was one very small step from shouting—right in his face. "We're in a _supply closet_. There is nothing even slightly dangerous about our situation and I _know that_. So you can keep your bedside manner to yourself!"

"Fine. As long as you promise me you'll keep breathing." He gave the door a cramped kick and probably came close to fracturing half the bones in his foot. That had been an exceptionally poor choice.

As he fought to keep his temper under some measure of control, Julian found himself remembering something Commander Sisko had once said to him. Nothing short of murder would make him lose his position now, he had been told.

Well, then. He gave the door another kick once the pain from the last had faded from excruciating to awful. When he and Elim were rescued and he hunted down the ensign who'd thought it would be cute to lock his superior officer and said officer's new partner in a closet together for some "quality time," it seemed he would be testing that assertion very thoroughly. . . .


	17. Noble/Peasant AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a new resident of the hamlet of Bajor--a Cardassian, they say. In spite of being warned against it, the Honourable Julian Subatoi intends to investigate these curious circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest with all of you: this is another trope that's not a favourite of mine, because, not to put too fine of a point on it, I am an old fart. Though I set this a fair bit farther forward in pseudo-history than was probably intended by the trope, the classism is still pretty intense in this and it's topped off with a sprinkling of sexism, so, well, be warned.
> 
> That said, I still had some fun with language and wordplay in this. Anybody who can tell me why Julian's home is called what it is gets a cookie (and no, it isn't named after Khan).
> 
> Oh! And happy (early) second birthday to this fic! (Good lord.)

The Honourable Julian Subatoi once considered that to be a commoner was to be fortunate—more fortunate, in some regards, than being of noble birth. This point of view persisted for a great length of time, until he was in his twenty-seventh year. 

It was, perhaps, understandable that the only son of a viscount might harbour such beliefs, particularly when he had no desire to inherit the lands and title of a man with whom he had experienced a falling-out a decade past.

But those beliefs were not destined to last.

The day that this great change was set into motion dawned stormy. Not in terms of weather—the skies held only a mild haze of cloud—but of relations within Singh Hall. Julian's father, Lord Richard of Bashir, had insisted that his son emerge from his customary retreat in the depths of the library and confront one of two duties: the selection of a suitable wife or the furthering of his understanding of Bashir lands. Neither task appealed, a fact which Julian communicated with the greatest of clarity. As always, however, Lord Richard remained firm. And so, choosing to his mind the lesser of two evils, Julian rode into the nearest hamlet of Bajor.

Though his father had sent him to examine Bajor with the eye of a future lord, Julian found much greater pleasure seeking the company of what he considered its "simple, honest folk." They never treated him with anything save the highest respect, and he in turn was certain to show them the same courtesy he would demonstrate one of his peers. He spent a comfortable afternoon visiting the innkeep, engaging in conversation with a pair of passing travellers, sampling the wares of the barkeep and baker, and generally enjoying the idyll of country life as he perceived it.

It was when he observed an unfamiliar shop that had sprung up in a side lane that his idle wanderings came to an end. It was an ordinary little place, at first sight. The only remarkable fact about it was its newness, which was remarkable indeed. Bajor was an unchanging sort of place, and to see that constancy disturbed at once piqued his curiosity.

Julian searched about and located a passing matron returning from the bakery, if the loaf-shaped parcel in her basket was any judge. He broke into a long-limbed stride, and, once he was within polite distance and she had curtsied to him, inquired, "I beg your pardon, but who tends that shop there?" 

He nodded in its direction and looked back in time to watch the matron's expression close.

"That would be Mr Garak's, sir," she responded in the charming local accent that fell so fairly upon his ears. "He's a tailor." Her brows drew together. "From Cardassia."

His brows, by contrast, rose as far as they were capable. "A Cardassian? Are you certain?"

Cardassia was the name of the village located on the neighbouring land belonging to the Dukat family. It lay barely inside the border of that territory, as Bajor was just within Bashir lands. The rivalry between the Bashirs and the Dukats was ancient and bitter, and the hatred the Bajorans and Cardassians bore one another was a reflection of the attitudes of their betters. For a Cardassian to willingly choose to come to Bajor was nothing short of extraordinary.

"I am. He's not trying to hide it—which is just as well," the matron added, "for we would know in an instant exactly what he was."

"I see." Julian's gaze strayed to that unassuming little shop once more before he forced it to return to his companion (a dreadful lapse in manners on his part, truly unforgivable). "Thank you, madam. You have been most helpful."

She must have perceived his distraction, for her mouth fell slightly open. "Sir, you're never planning on paying him a visit, are you?"

"Of course I am." He smiled brilliantly. "One must be familiar with all one's tenants, of course."

"I wouldn't recommend it, sir. You're sure to regret it."

"Why?" he asked. "Is it because he is a Cardassian?"

"No," she responded. "It's because he's a git—if you'll pardon my language, sir."

Julian blinked, then chuckled. "I thank you for the warning. I shall tread most cautiously." He nodded to her. "Good day."

She curtsied once more. "Good day, sir."

As soon as the matron had continued on her way, Julian crossed the remaining distance to Mr Garak's shop. He spent little time examining it from the outside; his curiosity about the man had reached truly astronomical proportions and so he was quick to enter.

The shop was small but trim and immaculately clean. Examples of the tailor's work—astonishingly, some even in simplified versions of this year's fashions—stood on wooden frames throughout the shop. Farther in, Julian could see a half-finished piece on a very old, fraying dressmaker's dummy.

He had little more opportunity to observe the interior of the tailor's, for nigh instantly, the man he could only assume was Mr Garak had approached him with a smile and, once he came to rest, a bow.

"Ah, you must be the Honourable Mr Subatoi. What a privilege it is to host you in this, my humble establishment." His eyebrows lifted, transforming his rather plain features into the very picture of sincerity. "Though I might be but a simple tailor, I hope I can be of some small service."

Julian surveyed him for a brief moment, using that time to lend order to the muddle of questions in his head. Though Mr Garak's hair was kept in the traditional Cardassian style and the cut of his garments could not have placed him anywhere else, there were several incongruities that made him a figure of great interest.

"Perhaps you could begin by explaining how you knew my identity," he settled upon as his first line of inquiry.

"It always pays to know as much as one can about the family that rules one's life," Mr Garak replied obediently. "The Bashir family have but one son, a fine young man of twenty-seven years. It required no great feat of intellect to deduce that you are he."

"Ah, but I could have been a traveller from a distant town," he pointed out, too intrigued to notice the absence of that small yet vital word, "sir."

"Perhaps . . . but your carriage, your speech, and the cut of your coat—not to mention the beautiful fabric from which it is made—all suggest nobility and not a common stranger. May I?" he abruptly asked. His pale fingers stretched out toward his sleeve; Julian was too startled by his audacity to do anything but murmur a quick, "Of course."

Mr Garak took the hem between thumb and fingers and closed his eyes. An expression came over him that most men wore whilst savouring a particularly delectable pie. It was all a bit strange and slightly offputting, but Julian's questions had yet to be fully answered.

"You do not have the accent of a tailor," he said as Mr Garak opened his eyes and let his hand drop with a sigh.

"I have the accent of a Cardassian," Mr Garak responded.

"And yet you and I sound alike," Julian countered.

It was the first aspect of the other man he had noted. While the other villagers spoke with a melodious lilt, Mr Garak seemed to have no accent at all, and that meant they, the son of a viscount and a commoner, shared the same manner of speech.

"Perhaps there is some Cardassian in your lineage," Mr Garak suggested with a sideways glance that startled a laugh from him.

"I would not let my father hear you speak so," he advised, still smiling. "He would be most displeased."

Mr Garak's smile did the most curious thing. It did not change in form, but it shifted, from the welcoming expression of a shopkeeper to something . . . conspiratorial. Without intending to do so, Julian found himself leaning in.

"And yet you are not." It was not a question, but it invited clarification.

He provided it, his own smile dimming. "My father and I do not often agree."

"A pity." Mr Garak stepped back. It was only when he did that Julian realised some sort of bond between them had been severed. He felt it as a coolness and he half-fancied he could have shivered with it. "Have I satisfied your curiosity, sir?"

It was nearly as if he were being dismissed—but that was absurd. A tailor, however fascinating, did not dismiss one such as him.

He took a step forward and sought to reestablish their connection. "Not at all. I was hoping you could tell me who taught you the latest fashions of high society when most people of your class are wearing garments a full decade out of date."

Mr Garak's expression grew suddenly alert, and once again he answered with what might have been truth and what was certainly evasion, thereby setting the tone for a visit that stretched a full three-quarters of an hour. As Julian reluctantly departed at the end of that period, he was already planning his return visit.

The villagers could say what they wished, but in Julian's opinion, the arrival of Mr Garak was the greatest piece of good fortune Bajor had experienced in years. He could only hope the others would come to share his beliefs and thereby make Mr Garak the valued member of the village he deserved to be.


	18. Orphan AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When "Torin" Garak's coworker asks him to get rid of the Human boy asking for a job at their Cardassian restaurant, Garak decides to do the manager's job for her and hire "Julian Banting" instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl this was one of my absolute favourite fics to write out of the entire series, and like the Arranged Marriage one, I have a few more ideas for it kicking around the back of my head. Whether I'll get around to them remains to be seen, but I hope I'll have the time eventually.

"Garak, there's some Human boy looking for work out front and he won't leave," Melkir complained as he strode into the kitchen.

Elim Garak—or Torin Garak as he was known on this assignment—didn't bother to look up. He simply kept chopping his povva. "Hmm, really?"

He didn't bother to add, "And what are you expecting me to do about it?", since, as he expected, Melkir picked up on it anyway.

"You go talk to him—I'm through. If I spend any longer arguing with him, I'll overcook the stew." The sound of said stew being stirred was layered beneath Melkir's words as he added, "He wants to speak with the manager."

"Did you tell him she won't be back until tonight?"

"I did. He didn't believe me." Melkir banged his spoon against the edge of the pot. "Go pretend you're the manager or something. I don't care. I just don't want him taking up any more of my time."

Garak set aside his knife. "All right. But I doubt he'll believe me, given how loudly you're speaking. Humans may not be Vulcans, but they still have more sensitive hearing than we do."

Melkir grunted. Clearly, he no longer believed this to be his problem.

It took Garak no time at all to pick out the boy Melkir had been talking about once he left the kitchen for the main restaurant area: Human adolescents weren't precisely commonplace in Cardassian restaurants on Vulcan. He was the gangliest youth Garak had ever seen, all arm, legs, and nose—and scowl. It looked as if Garak had been right about Melkir being overheard.

In response, Garak put on his most pleasant smile. "You must be the one looking for a job."

"Yes, but you aren't the manager," the youth retorted.

"I'm afraid not." Garak held out his hand, because if there was one thing he'd learned during all his time offworld, it was that handshakes were irresistible to many Humans.

This one proved the rule. Despite his frustration at Melkir's tactlessness, he still took Garak's hand. His palm was unpleasantly damp (a combination of Vulcan's climate and nerves, Garak suspected), and the moment they touched, he startled. If Garak had to guess, this was his first contact with a Cardassian in more ways than one—and that made his choice to come here an odd one.

"My name is Garak," he continued. "It seems I've been assigned to get rid of you."

His humour was not shared; the youth's frown did not move. "I just want a chance at a job. I need work experience if I'm to get into Starfleet. I don't care what you give me—I'll do it."

Garak widened his eyes at him and inclined his head. "Dangerous words. I'd be careful about saying them to a stranger."

He considered the young man for a moment, measured the set of his shoulders and the pinch of his mouth before he made his decision. Sentiment: it was his weakness every time.

"Come into the kitchen and get cleaned up." He smiled. "You can start by chopping my povva roots."

The youth's eyes widened, though as a Human, the gesture meant disbelief and not emphasis. ". . . I, um, can?"

"Unless you aren't able to do so, in which case I find it somewhat unusual that you're looking for work at a Cardassian restaurant," Garak answered, but it was clear that once again the tease had passed very, very far over the young man's head. Ah well. "Follow me."

Garak rather enjoyed Melkir's incredulous look when he returned to the kitchen with one more Human than he had started with. It wasn't that he disliked his coworker—it was simply that this was one of the less interesting covers he'd had for a while. He had to make his entertainment where he could.

"Garak, what are you doing?"

"The cleaning station is in the back," he told the youth, then turned a smile on Melkir. "I'm giving Osin a hand with her staffing. She _was_ planning on hiring someone to help us in the kitchen this week."

"A _Cardassian_." Melkir set his hands on his hips. "Not some Human child who's wandered in from who knows where."

Garak glanced over to where said Human was doing a surprisingly thorough job of washing up. "Where did you wander in from, might I ask?"

He slid an uncertain look over his shoulder. "The apartments two blocks over."

"There. You see?" Garak beamed. "Mystery solved."

Melkir rolled his eyes. "Osin is still going to be angry, and I'm not taking any of the blame for this."

"I'd hardly expect you to. But I'm sure she'll come around. After all" —he glanced behind him and gestured at his abandoned knife and povva for the young man's benefit— "having a Human working with us would go a long way toward proving to the Vulcans that our reputation as 'inflexible xenophobes' is unwarranted. Yes, that's it," he added, breaking off to come stand at the youth's elbow.

Melkir grunted and went back to his stew. Once more, it seemed he felt he'd done his duty; any further consequences were Garak's alone to shoulder.

Garak watched the youth for a moment or so before commenting, "Cut the povva a little thinner . . . yes, like that. Good. You have very steady hands."

The young man didn't look up—clever. "Thank you."

"You're most welcome." He watched for a beat longer. "Our manager, by the way, is Renara Osin. She's the one you'll need to impress. The ray of sunshine by the stewpot is Damen Melkir. We have a few more working here as well as the wait staff, but I'll introduce you when your shifts coincide."

The youth stopped chopping for a moment. "Do you think Ms. Osin will hire me, then?"

"I think she'll be rather displeased with my initiative, but will ultimately see the wisdom of my decision." He smiled; when Melkir snorted, his expression only widened. 

He allowed the young man a moment to stare at him out of the corner of his eye, aware that he was almost certainly a strange sight. Garak had met his first Human when he'd been around that age and had found him difficult to look at naturally. He could sympathise, then, with the conflict of manners and curiosity—especially since he knew Cardassians had a reputation for being rather dour. The frequency of his smiles no doubt made him seem all the stranger.

"And now that you have our names," Garak said once he felt the young man ought to have looked his fill, "what might yours be?"

It was a question of convenience and politeness, but the reaction it received turned his inquiry into something else entirely. It was slight, almost nothing, really. The teen had begun to lift his knife to resume his work. For just a beat, not even two, he lowered his hand so that his heel rested on the cutting board. Then he began to chop again, and only then did he answer.

"Julian."

Someone like Melkir wouldn't notice that checked movement, let alone understand its significance. But an operative of nearly two decades in the Obsidian Order? He'd deserve whatever unpleasant ending was in store for him if he didn't spot that sort of detail.

His smile never changed. "Julian . . . ?" 

A longer pause, an obvious one this time. ". . . Banting."

"A pleasure to meet you." He touched Julian's upper arm—the one opposite his hand holding the knife, of course. "I'll be putting together the sauce for the tojal. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask me. Or Melkir, if you can't get enough of his winsome ways."

Melkir ignored him, but Garak saw a suppressed smile on Julian's face. That pleased him. What pleased him even more, however, was the way the afternoon had turned out.

"Julian Banting" was no longer simply a whim. Now he was a _puzzle_.

*

An unfortunately easy puzzle to solve, as it turned out. It was simplicity itself to determine that "Julian Banting" was actually Jules Bashir, missing from Earth for the last three weeks. Parents Richard and Amsha Bashir were apparently desperate for news of him, particularly news leading to his safe return.

Garak wasn't all that inclined to give it. According to the date of birth listed in the bulletin, Jules was fifteen. As far as Garak was concerned, that was more than old enough for someone to make their own decisions. He had been living on his own as a probe for nearly two years when he was Jules' age. He was aware, of course, that Humans tended to regard youth differently than Cardassians, but he was hardly Human, was he?

To be certain, though, three days into Jules' work at the restaurant (as predicted, Osin had been vocally displeased but had hired him anyway), Garak followed him home. 

Withdrawing his presence was somewhat more challenging than usual. Not only were there relatively few Cardassians on Vulcan—only a smattering of political exiles—but he simply did not and would never have the willowy shape of a typical Vulcan. But he succeeded all the same, to the point where there were several occasions when he came into Jules' field of vision and the young man hadn't so much as blinked. Not even the Vulcan pedestrians paid him any attention.

It turned out that, just as he'd said, Jules lived in one of the buildings only two blocks from the restaurant. As Jules entered, he passed an older Vulcan woman who greeted him about as fondly as Vulcans greeted anyone. Rather than follow him farther after that, Garak stayed where he was.

It had been foolish and sentimental to concern himself even this much with Jules' wellbeing, and he could only imagine what Tain would say if he found out. And if he learned that Garak had actually been _relieved_ to watch that interaction between Jules and one of his neighbours . . . best not to think of it.

His curiosity satisfied for the moment, Garak departed for his own flat in a markedly more spacious neighbourhood and remained there for the rest of the day.

*

"Pass me the yamok sauce, if you would, Jules," Garak requested without looking away from arranging the tojal on a plate.

He heard the bottle scrape against the counter and looked up to take it. It allowed him to see the precise moment when Jules recognised his mistake, and to catch the sauce before it made a dreadful mess on the floor.

Jules' chin jerked left and right, but Garak had made certain they were alone in the kitchen before he had spoken.

All the same, Jules whispered, "It's _Julian_."

"Not according to the bulletin your parents issued last month," he answered amicably. "Jules Bashir, born in 2341 to Richard and Amsha—"

Jules seemed on the verge of bolting, so Garak cut himself off to lay a hand on his forearm. "I won't turn you in. You have my word. But you may want to reconsider your alias. After all, if I, a simple cook, was able to track you down so easily, it will be only a matter of time before your parents do as well. I presume that isn't what you have in mind."

"I'm never going back to them, _ever_."

The statement was uttered just as quietly as before, but the force of his words couldn't have been greater if he'd shouted. Garak didn't allow himself any outward reaction but kept his hand on "Julian's" forearm. The response had only confirmed his decision to let Jules live his life as he chose. It was plain the mark of whatever his parents had done to him was scored deep.

"No one is expecting you to, Julian," he saod deliberately, and felt the young man relax beneath his hand.

He let go of Julian and picked up the yamok sauce again. "By the way, did you finish the book I loaned you?"

Julian had, and he was his usual awkwardly polite self about what he had thought of it, but Garak wasn't offended. His tastes would mature in time.

*

Later that night, once Garak had finished counting the day's earnings and had returned to his apartment, he went to his computer. It was a work of barely half an hour to erase any traces Julian had left over the past month and to create a more concrete identity for "Julian Banting." If his parents discovered him now, Garak would be very, very surprised.

*

Inevitably, Garak's time on Vulcan drew to an end. He found that he was sorry it had. The climate was pleasant—it was almost like being back on Cardassia—and for once, his cover had been, too. He'd greatly enjoyed mentoring Julian. He could already tell he was going to miss him. It was tempting, extremely tempting to invite him back to Cardassia, but the idea of what Tain would do with that brilliant, innocent young man quickly put paid to his flight of fancy.

Instead, he would have to care for him in other ways—careful ways, so that Tain would never discover just how badly one of his best agents had been compromised.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, my dear Julian," he announced one evening. They were alone in the restaurant; Julian was cleaning up and he was once again tallying the restaurant's earnings.

Julian looked up from wiping a table, his eyes wide. "What's wrong?"

"I've received news that my father back on Cardassia has taken ill." He kept his expression suitably sombre, but he couldn't help his twist of enjoyment at that particular deception. "I'll be returning there as soon as I set everything here in order."

Julian's cleaning cloth dropped from his hands; Garak barely needed to glance at Julian's expressive face to tell what he thought. It was heartwarming, in its own way, that he was so affected.

"I'm so sorry. How long will you be away?"

Garak waited a moment before responding: the hesitation of a man trying to find the right words. "That's something of a . . . problem. You see, like me, my father works in a restaurant—or rather, he owns one. He'll need someone to take over when he passes on, and being his only child, well. . . ." He spread his hands and allowed regret to suitably arrange his features. It required far less effort than he had expected. 

"Oh." Julian's head lowered; his shoulders dropped. But then he looked up again. "I'm . . . glad you'll be able to have your own restaurant. You've wanted that for some time, haven't you?" An endearingly alarmed look crossed Julian's face. "I'm—I'm not glad about your father—I only meant—"

Garak stepped around the front counter to lay a hand on Julian's upper arm. He couldn't have suppressed his smile even had he wanted to. "I understand completely, and I'm touched by your well-wishes. Thank you."

"Oh, um. Don't mention it."

Then, his gaze slipped from Garak's and shifted left and right. He was clearly mastering the courage for something. Garak gave him time and waited.

Finally: ". . . I'll miss you."

Garak had no more need to feign his surprise than he needed to pretend deep fondness. "And I'll miss you. You've made my time here far more enjoyable than it otherwise would have been."

Julian made a darting little movement forward, but fell back. A beat later, he took in a breath, strode ahead, and, to Garak's astonishment, hugged him.

Julian was tall for his age—nearly as tall as Garak—and he had the build of a typical Vulcan. Garak at first took care as he awkwardly folded his arms around him. But then he became aware of the surprising strength to him, beyond what he would have expected. Julian Banting wasn't nearly as fragile as he appeared.

Garak could tell that Julian's flush when they parted had nothing to do with Vulcan's climate—particularly since the evening was cool—and so he said quite naturally, "I'd like to give you a gift, if you'll accept it. Think of it as a goodbye present and a thank you for all our discussions."

"You don't need to do that," Julian answered automatically. Whatever else his parents had done to him, they had at least raised him to be polite.

"Oh, but I want to." He slipped his passcard from a pocket and held it up. "I'll leave this and my address with Osin before I depart. It's for my apartment. You can have whatever is inside, although I'm afraid it isn't much. I'll be traveling light, so I'll need to leave the majority of my possessions behind. You can do with them whatever you see fit."

Julian's mouth had dropped open partway through his explanation,, and his eyes had grown wider by the word. The moment Garak finished speaking, he burst out, "I can't take your home, Garak!"

"Why not? It would only be going to a stranger," he said as reasonably as he knew how (which was very reasonably indeed). "I'd rather leave it in your hands than anyone else's. And this way, I don't need to worry about disposing of my belongings before I leave—you'll be doing the job for me. So, you see, you're actually doing me a favour."

But still Julian was shaking his head. "It's too much—I can't."

With great deliberateness, Garak took both of Julian's upper arms in his hands and waited for Julian to look up at him. It had only been a few months since they had met and already the distance between them was noticeably smaller. If he had been in a position to stay, Garak didn't doubt that one day in the not-at-all distant future, he would be the one looking up instead.

"Cardassians value good conversation above nearly all else," he said. He let the unusually subdued tone of his voice capture and keep Julian's focus. "That's something of which you've given me a great deal. Let me repay you for your gift." He waited a breath, then added, "Please."

As he knew, Julian was unable to defend himself against Garak's words. ". . . All right. Thank you so, so much, Garak."

"Not at all. I'm happy to be able to do this for you." Garak let go of him and returned to his original place. "Now we should finish our tasks before it grows too late. I would hate to get you in trouble with Osin."

"Right." Julian picked up his cloth again—but didn't go back to cleaning right away. Once more, Garak waited.

"Garak?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"Could you send me your address when you get back to Cardassia? I want to keep in touch." He smiled awkwardly. "You already know mine, or you will, so. . . ."

Garak barely hesitated. "I'll see what I can do—but keep in mind that it may be some time before I can. I'll need to set my father's affairs in order."

Or rather, he would need to arrange a suitably secret drop-off point. Such things were not quick to assemble.

"Of course." Julian tossed the cloth from right hand to left and back, an absent sort of fidget. "Take as much time as you need, all right?"

"All right."

They shared a smile at the deliberate echo, and then both went back to work.

*

The following morning, Garak departed on the first of a long series of shuttles that would take him back to Cardassia. The passcard to his apartment, he had left on top of Osin's desk with the address and permission for one Julian Banting to make use of it for as long as he chose.

Later that morning, a prominent Andorian politician was found dead in his guest quarters. He had been visiting his planet's ambassador, but had succumbed to what seemed to be a heart attack. It was an unfortunate matter, to be sure—particularly for the Andorians—but it had little impact on the life of an ordinary cook returning home to care for his father in his last days.


	19. Vampire AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever since Dr. Bashir started inviting Garak to Quark's for drinks, he's become very particular about who touches his glass. Garak intends to find out why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really, really did not expect to enjoy writing this nearly as much as I did. There's just something about a lifelong vampire phobia that suggested to me that #19 would not be one of my favourites. And yet here we are.

Quark's wasn't precisely Garak's favourite place to relax. It never had been, not since the day Garak had arrived at what had then been Terok Nor. Had he the choice, he tended to avoid the bar, and he never felt as though he were missing out. 

However, if Dr. Bashir decided to make drinks at that establishment a tradition, he certainly wasn't about to turn him down. Especially not after a long and frustrating spate of "Sorry, Garak, I promised the Chief I'd. . . . "

Their first few outings together were surprisingly pleasant, though Dr. Bashir had seemed nervous—particularly when Garak had remarked upon his choice of kanar.

Garak had mentioned his unusual tastes out of nothing more than curiosity—he hadn't met a Human yet who liked it, and he'd not thought Dr. Bashir would be the one to subvert his expectations—but when that had served to make Dr. Bashir even more jittery than before, Garak's interest had been caught. He had said nothing more on the subject, though, and had guided the conversation onto more usual topics. After a time, the Doctor had relaxed.

But Garak didn't forget his reaction.

Each evening that they went to Quark's, Dr. Bashir's nerves faded sooner and sooner, until eventually he acted no differently at the bar than he did at the replimat. He retained some rather strange habits, though, ones that Garak kept a very sharp eye on. He would never let Garak touch his drink—a drink that was always served from a different bottle, even when they were both drinking the same variety of kanar. Once, when Garak had offered to pick up their glasses from Quark for him, Dr. Bashir's eyes had widened slightly and he had quickly assured him that he was perfectly fine retrieving them himself, more than fine, really. 

He knew what those signs meant, coming from anyone else. But a conspiracy between Dr. Bashir and Quark was _absurd_ . . . or so he wanted to believe. After Palandine, he knew better than to believe his wishes had any bearing whatsoever on the truth. 

And so one evening, when the Doctor was well and truly distracted by their conversation, Garak unhesitatingly took the Doctor's glass and drank. 

The smell should have warned him. But by the time it registered, Garak was gagging, his mouthful sprayed across the table at a horrified Bashir and down his own nearly new tunic.

It was difficult to stare when one was attempting not to empty one's stomach—Dr. Bashir pounding on his back was not helping—but Garak gave the attempt his all. _Why_ in the name of he-didn't-even-know-what was Dr. Bashir drinking _blood_?

"Steady on, Garak," the Doctor told him; Garak gave him a weak glare. "It must have gone down the wrong way."

"It must have," he croaked, once he was reasonably certain he had finished retching. He caught Bashir's hand and held it. "Doctor, might we have a word? In private?"

His words shifted Dr. Bashir's expression into something dull and distant—but then a polite smile washed it all away. Even now, amidst his bafflement, he had to admire the talent that took.

"Of course. What about my quarters? They're closer."

So, then, this was too private for even a quiet hallway? It seemed Dr. Bashir didn't want his little foible widely known.

"Your quarters it is." He gave up dabbing at his tunic (bloodstains always did spell the end of an outfit, no matter how much he liked it). "After you."

There was no "my dear Doctor" right now, and it was plain from the way Dr. Bashir curled into himself that its absence had been heard. But until Garak fully understood the situation, he wanted to maintain a little distance.

He kept up appearances with what would sound to anyone overhearing like their usual conversation, discussing the actually rather passable mystery Dr. Bashir had recently loaned him. Superficially, the answers he received were equally normal, but to anyone who was familiar with the Doctor, his distraction was plain.

For Garak's part, he couldn't help but be fully aware of the discrepancy between his own current watchful state and his typical interactions with Dr. Bashir. Had he truly come to trust him so much? As unpleasant as nearly swallowing a mouthful of blood had been, he was now grateful for the experience. It seemed he had been in dire need of being shocked out of complacency.

The moment the doors of Dr. Bashir's quarters closed behind them, Garak said, "I hope you'll forgive my bluntness, Doctor, but would you care to enlighten me as to why were you drinking blood at Quark's just now?"

Dr. Bashir broke away from his side, long legs taking him nearly halfway across his quarters in only a few strides. Though he was facing away, his misery was clear as he said, "I'm so sorry, Garak. I never meant for you to get that glass."

"Oh, there's no need to apologise. I won't claim it was a pleasant experience, but I'm entirely unharmed." Then, with deliberateness, he added, "I'm simply relieved you weren't attempting to poison me."

As he expected, Dr. Bashir swung around to goggle at him. " _Poison_ you? That's ridiculous!"

Garak widened his eyes. "Ah, yes, you're perfectly right. I should have suspected, when I saw the care you were taking with the handling of our drinks, that you were only trying to prevent me from drinking someone's blood by mistake."

He knew his sarcasm to be ill-chosen the moment Dr. Bashir brought up his hands to cover his face, and actually felt a squeeze of regret when he said with uncharacteristic weariness, "I . . . sorry. I suppose that must've looked rather bad to you."

"It's quite all right." Garak's own strides weren't as long, but they closed the gap between them all the same. "I appreciate being kept on my toes."

Dr. Bashir raised his head and tried a smile. It wasn't at all up to his usual standards. 

Really, it was extremely difficult to tread with caution when Dr. Bashir was making him want to take him in his arms and—no, those feelings needed to go back into their box and stay there. 

So instead he sent out that air of being a comfortable, nonjudgmental, understanding listener. This time, he was even being genuine about it.

And, as always, it worked. After a pause, Dr. Bashir said, "I wasn't born like this. It happened at the same time as my genetic enhancements, as a side effect from the surgery." Something like a smile stretched his lips. "It's to be expected with illegal medical procedures, of course. With no regulations and no oversight, I imagine these 'little mistakes' happen rather often. I should be grateful it wasn't anything worse."

Garak said nothing, but his thoughts were on certain reports he'd gained access to during his Obsidian Order days. Provided there were no further side effects—or even if there were—the Doctor should be very grateful indeed.

Dr. Bashir swung away from him again; he seemed unable to keep still. This time, Garak remained in place and kept his body quiet to hopefully inspire the same in the Doctor in turn.

"As my intellect grew and I should have been growing physically stronger, I started to weaken instead. It didn't take the doctors long to figure out why—I wasn't their first case by any means. And so, ever since, I've needed to ingest about a cup of blood each day to live. My body can't survive without it. Believe me, I've tried."

When the Doctor had finished, Garak said, still calmly, still conversationally, "I take it there's no cure for your—condition yet."

Dr. Bashir's head jerked back and forth. "Not yet. I've been trying to find one for years—it's part of the reason why I went into medicine in the first place. But everything I've tried has failed."

Once again, Garak stepped forward, so that he was standing just behind Dr. Bashir. "Who else on the station knows about this, may I ask?"

He was expecting the answer to be "Chief O'Brien" and so was pleased when Dr. Bashir said, "Only the senior medical staff. They found out soon after I arrived—I was synthesising far more Human blood than necessary and they wanted to know why." His voice lightened a bit. "They've been very good about it. Dr. Solan is even helping me with my research."

"Does Quark know?"

"No. I give him the bottles to use. The first time I did, I told him that my kanar contained medication for a condition that would cause unpleasant symptoms if anyone else took it. I may have suggested he'd almost certainly be sued if that were the case."

Garak smiled. "A wise course of action."

But then he took a moment to sort through this new information, to allow the shift of memories in his mind. The situation was undeniably odd, even without taking into account that it had been only a few weeks since he had learned of the Doctor's genetic engineering. All the same, it was hardly the strangest thing he'd encountered in his lifetime, and it certainly wasn't worth the fuss Dr. Bashir was making over it.

. . . Hmm. "If your condition is such a secret, why did you start drinking openly with me? Kanar does make a good disguise, I'll admit, but it seems to me that you're taking an unnecessary risk."

Dr. Bashir finally turned around, and even if he had yet to make eye contact, Garak chose to take this as a good sign. "I suppose . . . I was tired of hiding. I've had to keep so much of who I am a secret. I was ready to take the truth to the grave, but when everyone learned of my genetic engineering, and—and life went on, the idea of keeping this other secret . . . well, it no longer had much appeal."

"I see." He wasn't so sure he did, actually, but he supposed a person as fundamentally honest as Dr. Bashir would find keeping such significant secrets from his friends more burden than fact of life.

And then, because he was curious (and honestly _embarrassed_ at discovering not one but two failures of observation on his part), he asked, "You aren't keeping any more secrets from me, are you, Doctor?"

Dr. Bashir almost smiled. "No—no, that's it, Garak, I promise."

Garak believed him . . . for the most part. Of course, only last month, he would have said that Dr. Bashir was too poor of an actor to hide anything from him. Now he wasn't so sure: a thrilling thought indeed.

He allowed himself to set a hand on his Doctor's shoulder. He needed an outlet somewhere and Dr. Bashir still needed to be comforted. And comfort was exactly what the touch brought: the Doctor palpably eased beneath his palm. He saw his hazel eyes flick to his hand and then Dr. Bashir met his gaze at last. 

"Forgive me if I'm wrong—it's been decades since I last studied Earth's mythology, " Garak said, "but if you need to drink blood to survive, that would make you a 'vampire,' would it not?"

Dr. Bashir rolled his eyes; Garak's smile grew. "Very funny, Garak. I'm not planning on biting your neck, if that's what you're worried about."

Garak's grip on Dr. Bashir's shoulder tightened and he only just swallowed down a suggestion in time.

"I doubt my teeth could manage your ridges even if I tried," he went on and Garak really needed to move the conversation along before he did anything ill-considered.

He cleared his throat in the hopes of masking any _changes_ to his voice. "So you have no hidden allergies to garlic or religious objects I should know about?"

"None. Otherwise I would have been dead years ago."

"Fortunately for both of us, that isn't the case." He gave Dr. Bashir's shoulder one last squeeze and let go. "Well, now that this matter has been cleared up, shall we return to Quark's and resume our evening?"

It was unfortunate the first real smile he'd got out of Dr. Bashir since Quark's had to be an apologetic one, but at least there was a smile at all.

"If it's the same to you, I'd rather not go back just yet. But I'll see you tomorrow for lunch . . . ?"

There was but a residue of uncertainty left in Dr. Bashir's voice. Even so, Garak made sure he replied with neither hesitancy nor overemphasis. "Of course. I look forward to it." He smiled. "Good evening, Doctor."

And this time, at last, he received a true smile. "Good evening, Garak."

Garak didn't linger, but returned directly to his quarters. There, he made a hopeless attempt to remove the bloodstains from his clothing and didn't try very hard not to think of Dr. Bashir biting his neck. It was a thought destined to linger, and that Garak did not mind in the slightest.


End file.
